


Scars

by mysterioustranger



Series: A Poisonous Stream [1]
Category: The Da Vinci Code - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Pre-Canon, Religious Fanaticism, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterioustranger/pseuds/mysterioustranger
Summary: Silas' only consolation are his mentor's words repeated in his mind's eye over and over again, reassuring him that he plays some great, holy role in the grand scheme of things... poor Silas. An introspective ficlet set before the canon events.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written and posted an embarassingly long time ago, in a fanfic archive far, far away. For nostalgia's sake (maybe because these two were the first pairing I truly loved, or maybe because re-reading it made me think "crap, I see real signs of your current style here gal"), I decided to polish it and translate it along its sister piece, "Vessels". 
> 
> Back in the days, I felt the need to mention and elaborate on my utter dislike of the source material. Nowadays, I look back on it rather fondly -- after all, if Dan B was able to publish, then maybe also am I.

 

_There's nothing in the world so sweet as love._

_And next to love, the sweetest thing is hate._

_\- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

 

A warm evening breeze shivered through the brittle leaves, lazily caressing the autumn landscape. As the last bright hues of daylight rolled back, they dyed the picture a soft orange and bid the first hint of darkness welcome. A flawless painting, he contemplated – even the distant buildings, the only hint of civilisation retreated to its spot against the horizon, could not mar the beauty of that sight. The tranquility was simply palpable, like those moments after a rainy day where you can hear an electrical pulse if you pay very, very close attention.

Huddled down in a corner of his room, he did wish he could freeze time. And what a preposterous thought that was – his fingers flinched around the whip, but gathering enough power on his hand to drag it over his shoulder again proved difficult.

He leant against one of the stone walls instead. It felt cold against his sweat-drenched foream – he closed his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath, shifting to place that heavenly relief on his back, on the spots where the whip had kissed him. They burned with pain at each movement, but it was good pain, _sweet_ pain, the sign that he had cleansed his own flesh, now as pure as it was pale.

His soul burned, too. Thoughts and first traces of doubt and guilt were starting to creep into that forsaken human brain of his, pulling him down from the trance. Guilt at every ounce of air he stole, drawing it in to satiate his unsettled body...

But he couldn't afford to stop breathing.

The cross which hung on his wall was killing him. The holy book on his nightstand told him he was not good enough. He was undeserving of everything that marvellous world offered him: the mattress on which he would stagger down that night – humble, but devoid of judgement; the beauty of his surroundings, hidden _everywhere_ if one looked hard enough, the mere thought of it making his heart ache; his mentor's teachings, persistent and loving, his determined and gentle way of shifting him back into the path of his destiny at the slightest sign of straying.

As the hum in his ears quieted down, he thought about how that room, the sanctuary where he found his solace, seemed alien to everything outside of it. It contributed to that feeling of otherworldliness he'd had lately, less like he was inhabiting a physical place and more a blurry photograph, or an uncertain memory forever trapped in the limbo between reality and dreams.

But even there, time flew, and no matter how much he prayed for the night not to come..., as he glanced outside from his crouched position, the landscape had become that slightest bit darker.

He looked at his legs, strong and white, so pale he could trace every vein underneath with his fingertips until they met the wrinkly laceration at his ankle.  To do it reminded him of his mentor's voice on the first day as he wrapped the cilice around his muscles, how softly he had been told not to avoid the pain but to embrace it.

A long time ago, those same legs had been covered in bruises, each an angry scream reminding him that he was a ghost..., but now, oh sweet mercy, they were enshrouded with red scars whispering he was an _angel_.

He smiled.

The thought was comforting enough to erase for a moment the presence of that firearm on the floor beside him..., which he reluctantly brandished every time he adventured out to piece together another part of what he'd come to call his “mission”. He felt so crude every time he hunted after a martyr in the shadows, ready to pull the trigger and put another lost soul out of its misery...

Every so often, a protest in the back of his mind would point out that metal was no different to the instruments he used to purify himself; but the voice of his conscience – the voice of his saviour – never took long to negate such nonsense.

_Silas._

_My sweet Silas._

_You question yourself too much, child. Just obey your mandate, and all shall be good._

And he was right. Delving was irrelevant. Because, once the brisk of night came and the moon started reigning mystically, he would wrap himself with those dark robes again to exit his small piece of the world and face those who should perish for their sins, namely--

(Often, his thoughts would trail off here, never managing to find the next right words. Had they betrayed God? Perhaps they had been too proud, attempting to defy their human limitations. Yes, that reason alone justified the way Cardinal Aringarosa had sent him off on his mission against them..., a mission worthy of his sacrifices, of the angel he was.)

(Yes. It was beautiful.)

It had been years since he had first witnessed the priest defending his holy building against a merciless pillage by the hands of two criminals. The thought still made Silas sick; they were as dazzled and confused, these robbers, as he had been before his salvation. Two necks had snapped under his hands on that evening and, after that, he only ever remembered burying his face in the Bishop's robes, finding comfort in the sound of his heartbeat and the warm feeling of his hand on the back of Silas' head, caressing him at the tempo of that wonderful four-worded mantra which had so clearly marked the transition from “that” life to “this” one.

_You are an angel._

Bishop Aringarosa's behaviour had been that of a father..., and yet their connection felt deeper, more special. To be fair, he wouldn't know either way; never before had there been a moral referent, had he felt in anybody the earnest desire to see and encourage the good in him. Silas held every teaching close to his heart..., to the point that they had become the pillars where his concepts of right and wrong had been erected.

He would comply with any of the Cardinal's commands. He would trust his righteousness forever.

And far away from each other as they now were... he sought solace in memories, replayed in his mind's eye once and once again the curious moments they always shared.

Sometimes, if he closed his eyes tight enough, he could even imagine they were together..., the intensity with which he got caught in that sea of emotion and images was too complicated to understand. But he didn't need to – that was the epiphany that could override them all.

Questioning was a mistake. To understand the reason behind something was less important than peace of conscience.

That had been the first teaching which just... _clicked_. And what an immense relief it had brought.

Every injustice in the world, every chaotic episode from his childhood which nagged at him, every question to the existence of a greater mind behind them which settled them like pawns on a battlefield, could be avoided by his mentor with just a shake of the head.

And the remaining ones, he always brushed away with a caress.

_My angel._

_My Silas._

Other memories were so blessed, they almost ached. In that chaotic sequence of effort, sin and redemption, and no matter how more important matters always clouded his mind, Cardinal Aringarosa always found the space to spare him a glance or some words of counsel. Even more often, preceding their meditation, he would be commanded to close his eyes and try to block the outside world's hedonist corruption, trying to stop everything and make him see what he saw.

And thus, his fears of an incertain future had been replaced by dreams of paradise.

A reckoning which would start by wrapping every human in a perfect sphere of fire, peeling away their impure skins like paper. And while the Earth shook to its core in a tremulous earthquake, all the pathetic souls would bleed out their agony to the very last drop, the only thing left an infernal ocean, washing all the empty carcasses and filling them up with _nothing –_ sweet, dizzying nothing. And selfishness, and appearance, and weakness and abuse would never matter anymore. The world would be left only with the will to start from scratch: this time, perhaps, without deviating from the established path.

Only bread and water, only blood and sweat... that was his fantasy of salvation.

And that image, that conviction, possessed such a supreme beauty that Silas had never wanted to see anything else.

 _Forgive me_ , he had repeated himself a thousand times when he felt incapable of reconciling his crimes with the concept of that paradise. But he feared not, for everything would be over on that night. This insanity would end the moment he dimmed his last victim's life, and then, he would be able to rest.

He would meet his mentor for the last time, and they would kill time together until Judgement Day. After all, Silas harboured no other desire than listening, during cold winter nights, to how he read books with no place in the world in front of the vehement fire..., than kneeling down at his feet and expecting the oh-so-warm touch on his oh-so-white skin..., to hear sweet words telling him both were saved and they would go to Heaven together; and then, Silas would lay his head on the black robes and think to himself it was not necessary, for they were already there.

_Pain exhumed the pleasure, but sometimes the line between both of them blurred down and he just couldn't tell them apart anymore._

And perhaps, well into the early morning, they would huddle down like cats underneath some old blankets, and he could dare to reach out a hand to touch the face he so silently desired..., and perhaps they would feel closer than ever, the only two beings left in the world-

(Would God be capable, in his infinte mercy, of looking the other way just for one night...?)

In his little space outside of the universe, it was not easy to distinguish fantasy from reality, but if that burning feeling was a product of his own imagination, he didn't ever want to wake up...

...but the moon and her mortuary glow reigned again over that dark sky, a sign that he needed to wake. He had to stand up, to ignore the soreness of his punished body; he had to cover his head with a hood to merge in the darkness, an irony for such a knight of light, and pray for forgiveness as he picked up the weapon...

Firearm in one hand, rosary twisted in the other, he counted the seconds until his deed was over.

He would finish so soon.

_My sweet Silas, a victim of circumstance._

He had no other choice.

 


End file.
